Absolution
by Jamie Thomas Durbin
Summary: A WoD story, read and find out more!


Absolution.  
A World Of Darkness Story By Jamie Thomas Durbin  
  
Jonothan Hellesmere had no knowledge that, within the next ten minutes,  
he was going to die. If he had known, it would perhaps have made life a lot  
longer. But then, nobody seems to think about their death much, so he would  
most probably have had no warning, even if it was there for him to see.  
  
To tell us some more about Jonothan Hellesmere, we must first examine  
what he had been doing previous to this fateful ten minutes. He had, to be  
exactly precise, been out clubbing. He stood 5 foot 11, with short black hair,  
piercing blue eyes, with an athletic figure. He was handsome, if you could  
call his chiselled, somehow feminine looks handsome, or his thin, almost  
slit-like lips. You could even call him well-dressed, if you were very much  
into black satin shirts, leather jackets and jeans, engineers boots, and  
shades. Unfortunately, nobody had called him handsome, or found his clothes  
somehow compelling, so he walked home alone, an uncomfortable prospect in  
Bradford in any case.  
  
And so it was that death was to find him.  
  
* * *  
  
Jonothan could feel someone following him. He had an instinct for  
that sort of thing, as he had spent most of his early life being hunted or  
followed by one group of thugs or another. He could tell that the person  
following him was trying to stay very quiet, something quite rare at this  
time of night, when the drunken slobs decided to drag themselves out of their  
sleazy booze joints or somehow gaudy bars. And that unnerved him immensely.  
As such, he was greatly surprised to find the woman blocking his path.  
  
She was quite beautiful, in a slight, almost elfin sort of way. She  
had long brown hair, reaching down to her waist, and was wearing a long leather  
trenchcoat, currently closed. Her almost angelic face showed no traces of  
makeup, and her eyes were closed, as if communing silently with the lamplight  
framing her slim form.  
  
Naturally, he stopped. It wasn't every day you met a beautiful girl  
on the streets of Bradford, and it wasn't every day you met one so obviously  
a hooker, like this one. For, truth to tell, Jonothan Hellesmore had a strange  
attraction towards hookers, and would often hire their services on a whim.  
  
His instinct was to prove his undoing. When she opened her trenchcoat,  
he could see nothing underneath, except the slim knee high leather boots she  
wore. She was totally nude! His mind tried to comprehend it all, but his  
drink fuddled mind added two and two together, coming up with Lust. He moved  
forward, straight into her waiting arms. They kissed. A sharp pain on his  
lower lip and a feeling of intense ecstasy was all the warning he had of his  
impending doom. He welcome it, thrusting into her, his thrusts getting weaker  
as everything faded to black...  
  
* * *  
  
*blood* It was all he could think of. Blood, feeding, hunger, blood,  
feeding, hunger blood feeding hunger bloodfeedeatbloodfeedeatbloodfeedblood  
feedbloodbloodbloodblood... His newly heightened senses, no more understood  
than his desire to eat, to rend, to joy in blood and feeding, told him that  
food was close by. It smelt good, a coppery tang in his nostrils and on his  
tongue that meant satiation was close by. He then realised he was confined.  
It was dark. It was claustrophobic. It was weak. With a raging outward thrust  
of his arms, his prison was destroyed, and he stepped into the room. The  
naked female form on the bed in no way resembled his predator of... how long  
before? (rational thoughts began to intrude. He pushed them aside)  
  
But she seemed good enough. She was thin, this one, but with a bust  
to her. He lusted. He lusted more when he noticed her helplessness, her  
exposure. Her taste. He tasted her, tasted the blood of her breast, fed, and  
screwed as he fed, sating both his great hungers in one orgasmic feeding  
frenzy. When he was done, he rolled onto the floor and slept.  
  
In the shadows, his soon to be mentor smiled...  
  
* * *  
  
Awakening from a sleep, in which he had vague dreams of raping someone  
and drinking their blood, Jonothan Hellesmere awoke to a nightmare. The lady  
of last night stood by the closed window, a smile on her gore-covered lips.  
As with last night, she stood clothed in only a leather coat and similar knee  
high boots. And... Jonothan tried to look away, *wanted* to look away, but his  
own inner lusts couldn't be denied.  
  
He vomited, depositing ashen gobbets onto the floor as he convulsed  
in a mixture of sheer nausea and horror at what he had done. The girl he had  
dreamed of lay there. She wasn't as pretty as she had been last night. In  
fact, she was damn near unrecognisable. Lacerations (from his nails?), bites  
(from his teeth?!?), and broken limbs (his doing?!? oh, GOD!) made sure of  
that. He looked back, back towards the window, towards his ex-mistress, and  
now, he realised, his creator. She merely smiled, and nodded, as if this were  
a particularly excellent piece of artwork he had perpetrated, not a brutal  
sexual killing.  
  
And then it hit him. He could hear the girl. Was she still alive? He  
got to his feet, almost spasmodically, and cupped his ear to her bloodied  
face. Was she really alive after... The realisation hit him, and he began to  
scream...  
  
She was in his fucking HEAD! She was begging him to stop, begging him  
not to hurt her, please god, not to hurt her, not to do this anymore, begging  
for an explanation, for an apology, for *something* to somehow make things  
right, instead of like this... He screamed some more, and then howled, an  
almost bestial cry of denial against the universe... She would be with him  
forever, that begging girl, no no nonononononononononooooooo!  
  
And, for the third time, he lapsed into unconciousness, the girl's  
voice hounding him all the way...  
  
* * *  
  
It was the following night that he woke. He could tell it was night,  
for the full moon was shining full through the window, bathing the nude  
features of his serene creator, his angelic tormentor, his beatific torturer,  
highlighting the brutal scene of his uncontrolled desires. Again, the voice  
resounded in his head, no longer screaming for reprieve, instead plaintively  
asking him why he had done this, why he had killed her so brutally, why he  
had not simply left her, and found some other person to prey on? He could  
find no answers, and, looking out towards the moon, he wept, his sobs carrying  
across the room. The venus that created him, this nubile black widow, turned.  
In her face remained her beatific smile, that look of communion, and he now  
noticed the almost vacant look in her eyes, as if not really noticing the  
world. Her smile broadened when she saw him weeping, and she beckoned to him.  
  
The voice cried out for him to fear this person, this *creature* that  
had tied her there, so that he would kill her, and not another. He scrabbled  
backwards, pushing himself up against the wall, driven by his guilt and the  
young woman's voice. The Dark Eve, as he decided to call her, merely moved  
forward, her hand held, not in beckoning, but in offer. She said not a word.  
And, despite the increasing protests of his victim's spirit (as he believed  
it to be), he took her hand.  
  
The scream of rage and loss reverberating in his head made him recoil,  
clutching his temples as she railed at him, berating him for siding with her  
captor, condemning him for his brutal rape and torture of her poor innocent  
body. And still Dark Eve, seemingly mute, offered her hand toward her young  
ward. He clung to it, and wept into her pale, smooth shoulder as he held her  
close, driving away the demons for a while...  
  
* * *  
  
A short while afterward, Jonothan Hellesmere and Dark Eve left the  
small building, Dark Eve beckoning, mute and angelic, Jonothan walking slowly,  
as if fighting some inner battle. Through the streets they wended their way,  
through alleyways and back streets previously unknown to the tortured and  
bemused Hellesmere. A short while later, Dark Eve seemingly found what they  
were looking for. He was not impressed. A ramshackle warehouse, seemingly, but  
there was no light within, except for a small room on the top floor. Office,  
he decided. Still beckoning, Dark Eve opened the door and entered.  
  
The scene that greeted him was nothing short of breathtaking. In  
between the rows upon rows of stacked crates, there lay small squares, in  
which men and women, and... Jonothan shuddered, trying with all his will not  
to look away... *things* were engaged in animated discussion. Using his new-  
found ability, he attempted to listen in on conversations. What he heard  
confused him. What were "kine"? What did they mean by "the mortal herd"? to  
which "prince" were they referring in their hushed whispers? Jonothan, wisely,  
decided to listen no more. And waited, with Dark Eve at his side.  
  
A short while later (a seeming eternity, with this damn girl screaming  
at me! thought Jonothan) a large, denim clad tough, holding what seemed to be  
an oversized combat knife (easily. In one hand), purposefully strode up.  
  
"Here to introduce the whelp?" Jonothan bristled, but kept his temper.  
Why shouldn't he, when this man was easily a foot taller than him,  
and twice as well-muscled?  
Dark Eve simply nodded, then frowned at the thug. Putting one hand to  
his temple, he nodded in return.  
"Sure, sure, let's take the-" he almost sneered the word "-*childe* to  
the Prince..." Again, Dark Eve frowned. The thug frowned in return,  
shrugged, and went on his way.  
  
Dark Eve beckoned, and he walked further, the voice in his head swearing  
profusely at his casual stroll into damnation. He ignored it for a while. This  
"prince" would come first, atonement would come later. He understood very  
little of this flip side of the world he lived in, and very badly needed a  
guide. Until then, he would remain subservient.  
  
Their walk took them through many crowds of people (vampires?), most  
of whom either made way or stared at them in passing, some making asides to  
their friends, some snickering, some fearful. However, when they got to the  
end of the warehouse floor, two heavies (almost identical to the first)  
stepped together, neatly blocking the way to the stairs.  
  
"Why isn't Louie with you?" Dark Eve frowned, and closed her eyes.  
The guards frowned also (he assumed they were guards). They stepped aside.  
Jonothan began to feel new respect towards this Dark Eve, perhaps wondering  
how powerful she really was.  
  
The rest of their journey was uninterrupted, although he could still  
hear the occasional comment made about him or his guide, even through the  
loud clanging his shoes and her boots made on the walkway. They soon came to  
an oaken door. Again, Jonothan gaped. An oaken door? In a warehouse? Who the  
hell is this "prince"?  
  
He was soon to find out. The doors opened, seemingly by themselves,  
and Dark Eve strode calmly in.  
  
With rather more hesitation, Jonothan Hellesmere followed...  
  
* * *  
  
As with the outside of the Prince's chambers, Jonothan was totally  
unprepared for the opulence that surrounded the richly clad figure in the  
centre of the room. Masterful tapestries and pieces of artwork covered the  
walls, and the floor was covered in deep carpet, that felt like clothen  
grass as he walked, yet looked like the sea undulating gently. Candlebras  
lit the room, yet left vast areas of shadow. Peering cautiously into the  
shadows, Jonothan could make out several figures, both male and female,  
all casually dressed. All, to Jonothan's eye, deadly. In returning his  
gaze to the Prince, Jonothan was almost brought to his knees by the fear  
he felt on gazing upon this diminutive, richly dressed figure. It was not,  
Jonothan decided, the Prince's figure, for the man would barely have stood up  
to Jonothan's shoulder. Nor, he decided, was it the open, smiling face. That,  
if glanced at first, radiated friendship and warmth. It was the Prince's eyes,  
filled with the animal hungers and lusts that somehow managed to communicate  
themselves to Jonothan. Jonothan did kneel then, and the Prince smiled. His  
voice, again, was filled with warmth, friendliness, kindness, yet held that  
undercurrent of violence and bloodlust and hatred.  
  
"Your little one has learnt respect for his elders early, it would  
seem, Angelique." Angelique. How bitterly amusing! thought Jonothan.  
Angelique (he preferred Dark Eve), merely nodded, smile still fixed  
on her pretty face. The Prince leaned further back in his chair, smiling back.  
He turned his face to Jonothan.  
"And how do you intend to repay Angelique's courtesy in introducing  
you to immortality?" courtesy? immortality? an eternity of screams, and threats,  
and bitter pleadings? Jonothan could say nothing, yet... yet he knew his life  
depended on it, somehow... A feeling...  
  
He looked up at Dark Eve (angelique! he told himself angrily...).  
  
She merely smiled wider. Jonothan gulped inaudibly.  
  
"I... I intend to serve her, until such a time as she has taught me  
all I need to know, and then I shall not disappoint her as a student, living  
her teachings well." The words rankled to Jonothan, a normally dominant man,  
but, as before, the feeling that his life depended on subservience (angelique's  
thoughts, not his? he didn't know.) impressed itself on his mind (angelique's.  
He attempted to send gratefulness in return. The voice in his head drowned it  
out in it's screams.)  
  
He waited.  
  
Angelique waited.  
  
The figures, previously hiding in the shadows, began to step forward.  
  
The Prince gestured. They stopped, retreated slowly. He smiled.  
  
"Welcome to the Nightlife, Mr. Hellesmere." he paused, savouring the  
waves of relief from Jonothan's mind, then pounced "Don't disappoint her." the  
aura of threat again began to gather. "And don't disappoint me either." The  
forms again slank forward, halting at the edge of the shadows "My power is  
wide, and my justice is swift."  
  
"Yes, my Prince." Then, with a casual nod, the Prince revolved his  
chair to face the window. It appeared that they were dismissed.  
  
* * *  
  
Trying to put together his thoughts, desperately attempting to make  
sense of this new life, Dark Eve and Jonothan Hellesmere walked, calmly,  
almost serenely through the streets, having passed by the University,  
seemingly heading towards the red light district. However, the calm, like  
the quiet of the night, was an illusion to Jonothan, who did his utmost best  
to think, to appear normal, while the voice in his head screamed its own  
brand of fire and brimstone at him, still berating him, hating him for the  
dark alliances he had been forced to make. He tried to tell it that he had  
been forced into this, first by Dark Eve's (angelique's!) predations, then  
by circumstances of excessive need. The voice screamed him down.  
  
As they both walked, they paid no attention to their surroundings.  
This was a time for gathering of thoughts (well, as best as possible when you  
have a dead girl screaming at you, thought Jonothan) and for enjoyment of each  
other's company (as best as possible when you both lust after and despise your  
companion...). As such, they strolled, the Dark Eve and the damned one, both  
blissfully unaware of the trailing shadows...  
  
The first warning Jonothan had were the whoops of destructive joy,  
and a sharp blow to the small of his back. He fell to his knees, then leapt  
to the side, watching the baseball bat snap in two on the pavement as he  
dodged. *My god* he thought *That could have been my spine!*. The voice, as  
he would have expected it to, simply screamed now. Jonothan Hellesmere, with  
nothing more on his mind but survival, told it to shut up. He was extremely  
gratified when it did. Now he could see. And plan.  
  
There were three of them, presumably vampires, if the strength of the  
leader (still holding his baseball bat's tattered handle) was anything to go  
by. Had the Prince decided to kill them after all? He put that thought to the  
back of his mind for the moment, and concentrated. The leader seemed the worst,  
but if the other two were vampires, he would not know. Dark Eve lay on the  
floor, with a long gash on the back of her neck. For all he knew, she was  
dead. They would pay for that. Or rather, they would if he had a weapon.  
  
Looking again at Angelique, he noticed the small knife she had been  
about to draw, perhaps sensing something was wrong. He leapt for it, then  
screamed with pain as a heavily booted foot almost crushed his hand. Using  
new reserves of toughness and strength he had not found before, he twisted  
and kicked his aggressor in the groin. Predictably, the boot came off his hand,  
and the thug's head came down. To meet Jonothan's knife coming the other way.  
  
The thug barely had time to register this before he collapsed, an  
almost *annoyed* expression on his face. Jonothan turned his attention to  
the other two. And saw the knife hurtling towards him. Again, he instinctively  
dodged, and the knife imbedded itself in a door behind him. He yanked it out.  
Now he had two weapons. But how many did the enemy have, and how many of those  
were mundane? He fought bravely, blocking blows, cutting off one attacker's  
hand, slicing open the other's throat, but he was then shocked by someone  
grasping him from behind. He twisted, trying to see his attacker. He screamed,  
then, and didn't begrudge the voice in his head screaming along.  
  
The shadows were holding him fast! No, it couldn't be, it just couldn't!  
But it was, and Jonothan Hellesmere was helpless. And all *three* of the thugs  
had survived the assault. In fact, the leader and the one with the cut throat  
no longer had wounds! Jonothan blanched, and, unable to attack, he waited for  
death... And witnessed a maelstrom. For angelique, recovered from her wounds,  
now moved expertly among his attackers, cutting one here, winding another,  
always keeping two disabled so she could deal with the third. One lost his  
head, then another... The shadows binding Jonothan disappeared, with good  
timing. Angelique was fighting the third, and it seemed unbalanced, for  
Angelique was slowly being forced back, back against the wall...  
  
With a scream of unadulterated rage, Jonothan Hellesmere leapt onto  
her attacker (the leader, although in his bloodlust, he had no way of knowing)  
and did the only thing he felt he could do. He sank his fangs into his neck.  
Again, that ectsasy, made purer by the fact that the girl's voice, the voice  
in his head, was urging him on, quieter and quieter now, almost faint, now  
gone, leaving happily... As he fed, and his opponent grew weaker, Angelique  
struck. Jonothan did not care, lost in the frenzy of feeding. He did not  
care that she had ripped out his heart, having plunged her hands into his chest.  
He did not care that she feasted on it even now, drinking the rapidly cooling  
blood, and he did not care that his feeding would soon be over. He did not  
even care about his new strength.  
  
He had found absolution.  
  
  



End file.
